


Gaming the system

by Kicker



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, One Shot, Other, POV First Person, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 06:34:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5617057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kicker/pseuds/Kicker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I've got a hammer in my hand and a gleam in my eye.</p><p>Turns out, some guys kinda like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gaming the system

I’d noticed some scratches on the barrel of my shotgun. It was just an aesthetic thing, it had been firing perfectly well. But I could see it, and sometimes I’m a perfectionist, so it was pissing me off. So one early evening, I sat down on the veranda with its stock wedged between my knees, a wad of fine-grit wet-and-dry in my hand, buffing out those scratches, trying to see what I was doing under those shitty electric lights. 

Danse walked by. Cast a glance. Kept looking. Head practically turned a full 180. I smoothed the paper to the tip of the barrel, and pursed my lips to blow away some imaginary dust. Damn near tripped over his own feet, walked away rubbing the back of his neck. _Asshole_ , I thought,  _is it such a surprise that I take care of my own weapon? Well, maybe, yes, but there's no need to be so_ obvious _about it._

To begin with, I was genuinely trying to make a difference. To my armor, that is. Hammering out dents, gluing in new layers of protective cloth. But there’s only so much you can do. I mean, to be honest, my skills lie on the more creative side of the spectrum. If he’d looked at me in the same way when he caught me darning a hole in my pants? I’d be embroidering fucking Rembrandts onto his flight suit.

But as it is, he walked by as I was angrily smacking a hammer into a piece of shit buckle that just wouldn’t sit right. I was this close to losing my temper completely. I gave it a smack. Let out an angry sigh. Looked up to see him standing there. You know those moments when time slows, and you realise the massive innuendo in the thing you’ve just said, or the compromising situation you’ve gotten yourself into? How’s this for size. Bent over this workbench, butt sticking out proud, braced like I was ready for… well. Hammer in my hand, breath hot and heavy, looking at him through my eyelashes like… well. 

His eyes were wide. Never saw his eyebrows so high. He swallowed, coughed, moved on. Rubbed the back of his neck.

_Oh_ , I thought.

_Oh, that’s his tell._

_I can work with this._

Most days, you could set your clock by him. I’m guessing there was a breakfast at some point, you don’t get that ripped by skipping breakfast, but I never saw that time of day. But 12 noon dead, he’d be on his way to get lunch. 6 pm, dinner. Military types, you know? Reliable. Not that I was watching him, you understand. Oh no.

Well. Maybe a little.

I _may_ have fallen into a bit of a habit, too.

11.50. Pick up some weapon or other, start buffing or screwing or some approximation of whatever the fuck it is people actually do to maintain their weapons. I had one nailboard from and into which I painstakingly removed and replaced the nails about fourteen times. And there’s always some piece of metal tubing that needs to be buffed, right? Right?

17:50. Warmth of the day just fading, still enough to have a couple of buttons undone, sleeves rolled up. I could just get a bit of metal, or leather, even wood, and just hit it. Bam, motherfucker. Check out my hammering technique. When the clock hit 18:00, I wouldn’t even check the street. I’d just pull up the hem of my shirt to wipe my face. Decadently pour a can of purified water into my mouth. Bite my lip, leaning over the bench, admiring my ‘handiwork’.

It all got too much when someone came back with a set of power armor. It stank of grease and testosterone, but you know, once you've exploded a few ferals there's not much that'll phase you, smell-wise. I opened it up, grabbed the handles, pulled myself in. There were beeps and whirs and all kinds of crazy shit happening. Just turning around was a fucking trial. When I did? Yup. There he was. Steadying himself against a fucking pillar, could barely stand on his own two feet.

Lord knows I’m a sinner. But I was already living in some version of hell, so who was going to even give a shit. I turned the suit back around. Hit the release. And oh, I couldn't quite see the floor. I just had to hang from those handles, bend over a little so I could look to see where my feet were going. Bit of a shimmy to reach the ground. Hands on hips, looked up at the suit. Oh yeah, that thirty second experiment totally warranted a luxuriant over-the-head arm-stretch, turning around to make sure he saw the strip of bare stomach above my pants.

‘Oh hey,’ I said. ‘Didn’t see you there.'

Reader, I married him.

(Not really. But I was walking funny for days, and that, my friend, is good enough for me.)

**Author's Note:**

> "Danse loved that"
> 
> please do leave me a comment if you have any thoughts, either here or on [tumblr](http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com). 


End file.
